


stew (the verb)

by bwyn, Yuisaki



Series: rings, dimes, and toys [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Keith and Shiro are Adoptive Siblings, M/M, allura gets mad about american food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 08:23:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11963490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuisaki/pseuds/Yuisaki
Summary: “I still don’t get how you can hate pizza but love Hot Pockets,” Matt says. Shiro groans. Not this again. Matt continues swiping at the photos on his phone, unaware of the doom awaiting him in his near future. “I mean, they’re like the same thing.”“I will eat your squirrels,” Keith snaps, and Matt inhales so quickly he chokes. Keith looks away from Omarion’s inquiring eyes to meet Matt’s horrified gaze, dead expression and all. “I will eat your squirrels.”“Heretic,” Matt hisses. “Filthy heretic.”***In which Princess Allura makes her entrance and Shiro sells out his brother and (more importantly) his couch.





	stew (the verb)

**A LOOK INTO THE PROCEEDINGS OF A HUMBLE STUDY ROOM: AN EXPLANATION REGARDING AN OBJECTIVELY CHARGED CLASH BETWEEN MALES**

By Pidge Holt

Today I happened to be in our local library’s most humble study room preparing for my [editor’s note: omitted for the investment of the readers’ continued well being] exam, when I noticed the phenomenon that many often hear about, but rarely observe.

That is to say, male ego.

The clash between the subjects could have been caused by said ego (or some other unknown gas of chemical make spreading throughout the air that only affected these two subjects), but for the sake of simplicity and lack of time, we will call the phenomenon “EGO” (standing for Egregious Grave Oversight [of said aforementioned two males and how their egos would interact]).

It has been roughly three hours since the observation, and it remains difficult for me to explain exactly _what_ I observed in that humble study room, but for the sake of the readers interested in the constant progress and evolution of science, I will try my best.

The studying started off relatively normal, according to procedure. When it comes to studying for my [editor’s note: omitted] exam, there is a certain series of steps that I follow:

  1. Ensure that the library is open on a day where resident Librarian and Student “Journalist” [editor’s note: if this is about Lance, he’s in the journalism program. why is it in quotation marks?] has a shift at the time needed for studying;
  2. Acquire sixteen (16) glass bottles of peanut butter-flavored hot chocolate;
  3. Gather materials relevant for my [editor’s note: PIDGE PLEASE] exam;
  4. Locate whatever miserable shadow Keith Song is residing in;
  5. Utilize photos of Keith doing [editor’s note: this was too cruel and too inhumane to publish to the world; omitted] at [editor’s note: here at the PP Post, we are strong advocates for human rights, animal protection, and the safety of Keith Song] for the purpose of hauling him out of aforementioned miserable shadow;
  6. Arrive at the library with exam materials, sixteen (16) glass bottles of peanut butter-flavored hot chocolate, and Keith Song in possession;
  7. Acquire the study room keys from resident Librarian and Student “Journalist” by any means necessary;
  8. Enter the study room;
  9. Commence.



You may think, dear readers, that with a series of so many complicated and delicate steps, that somewhere along the way the steps must have been tampered with, resulting in the observation of EGO.

This was not the case.

The EGO began after Commencement, when resident Librarian and Student “Journalist” stepped into the humble study room.

It bears mentioning that until this very moment, neither resident Librarian and Student “Journalist” nor local cryptid and cryptid hunter Keith Song had ever, to my express knowledge, interacted beyond the boundaries of our campus library’s most humble study room. Therefore what was witnessed by myself and a fourth character—purveyor of fine foods and host of excessive knowledge, Hunk “The Hunk” Maivia—was presumably first contact.

Which brings us to question what, exactly, initiated such an explosive display of EGO? Clashing personalities? A slip of the tongue? Perhaps the unexplainable forces that allow us, as humans, to exist autonomously repelled both subjects so completely that my egregious lapse in judgement when bringing the two within each other’s orbit somehow overstepped an unforeseen boundary.

My observations speak for themselves that regardless of cause, the effect is one that will surely have long-withstanding consequences.

Following the entrance and introduction of all participating subjects (and a behavioral anomaly that will be further investigated but I otherwise assume as inconsequential to the proceeding interaction), Keith “Enoby” Song utters a dual syllable chuckle that—in the eyes of our resident Librarian and Student “Journalist”—seemed to have been the equivalent to throwing down a glove and spitting on a dog.

In common words, a duel.

What occurred next could be explained as nothing but a series of baffling events, which I barely managed to jot down in shorthand notes:

  * Librarian and Student “Journalist” defends his name
  * Calls Keith “Dark’ness” Song _Steven_



(I must interrupt to say that if that dual syllable chuckle was a glove thrown down to our resident Librarian and Student “Journalist,” then Steven to Keith “Dementia” Song was the equivalent of telling Matt that he has no skill in catching squirrels. In other words, a grave error that can only be absolved by death or offerings to Her Sacred Holiness.)

  * Subjects argue about the difficulty of Thace’s class (comments will be accepted to get an accurate view on who was more realistic regarding the difficulty)
  * Keith “Raven” Song claims resident Librarian and Student “Journalist”’s handwriting is a knock-off Mona Lisa



(I don’t think this requires any explanation as to how resident Librarian and Student “Journalist” reacted to that comment.)

  * Coffee vs. tea
  * Hunk’s divine intervention



At this point it goes without saying that tensions are high, even in the face of Hunk’s imminent retribution should the outward expression of EGO continue. The rest of the evening was one of extreme passive-aggression that even myself, a clear contender for first place in the PA Olympics (although I might point out that as of late I have been dabbling in the more aggressive arts, but my strengths definitely lie in subterfuge), felt threatened by the ongoing blossoming of their feud.

Examples include but are not limited to:

  1. The mysterious smearing of glitter gel pen ink across Keith “Way” Song’s notes.
  2. Several shifting of bodies into more comfortable positions, preceded by muffled thumps from beneath the table and matching grunts.
  3. Prolonged eye contact:


  * Prolonged glaring.
  * Prolonged scowling.
  * A staring contest following an interaction that can only really be described as proverbial dick measuring.
  * The most artificial expression of gratitude from resident Librarian and Student “Journalist” to Keith Song and—by extension—myself that I have ever witnessed, and I was present when a request to remove squirrels from the attic turned into renovating the vestibule into a squirrel hotel.



Any further investigation into the thought process of Keith Song that night was met with a dead stare and monosyllabic responses, many of which were aimless curses. What proceeds from here will involve further behavioral observation in order to draw any conclusions. For now, I open the floor to anyone who may have more information to provide in light of these events.

* * *

There are a great many things Allura enjoys while walking through campus. One of them is the waving hands and smiles and other assortment of bright greetings that follow her wherever she goes.

Another is watching a Certain Someone spin on his heel and walk briskly in the opposite direction, as if that might save him from her impending wrath— _not_ that he has anything to be afraid of. It’s not as though he’s been avoiding her for upwards of a week, even though they both frequent the same buildings, even though she asked _nicely_ for his cooperation the first, second and third times. It’s not as though she’s low-key hungry to capture his image—from that sharp jaw to the way he stands restless _holy shit he’s a model and doesn’t even know it_ —but rather she simply has a personal assignment to finish, and he happens to be the perfect subject.

If only he would stop diving into the library. Allura suspects he’s been leaving class earlier and earlier just to get ahead of her. _Well_ , two can play that game. It’s not as though Allura has anything going on beforehand, aside from fetching her midmorning coffee.

Which brings her back to the great many things that Allura enjoys while walking through campus. Greetings, witnessing a Certain Someone trip over a slackline in his haste to escape, and recently passing by a bespectacled young man with hair like he’d slept with a hat on, always wandering the main green, ducking under whizzing frisbees with a look of intense concentration. Adorable.

Of these things, however, there’s one massive missing piece—or rather a collection of missing pieces that are of separate entities but became one giant issue the moment Allura, sound of mind and wealthy in spontaneity, decided to move to the United States to complete her master’s degree.

And this particular campus, poised distantly enough from the border that Allura feels the absence of maple leaves on flags viscerally, is devoid of Tim Horton’s.

Now this, in Canada, would generally not be an issue. Allura prefers McDick’s coffee anyway, iced or not. No, the real problem is that the choice has been wrenched from her flawlessly manicured hands.

America’s road trip gothic is copy and paste intersections. Canada’s is finding a Timmies that is only a single window on the side of another restaurant, a gas station, a forgotten corner of some tiny town whose niche café _is_ a Timmies.

Allura knew she was fucked when she first came to the States, walked into a Dunkin Donuts and asked for Timbits.

The exchange that followed went something like this:

Cashier: Tim...bits?

Allura: Yes?

Cashier: What, uh, are those?

Allura: You—Oh.

Cashier: ....

Allura: They’re like, the middle of—of doughnuts?

Cashier: You mean donuts?

Allura: That’s what I said. Doughnuts.

Cashier: Donuts.

Allura: ...Doughnuts.

Cashier: We have our Munchkins donut holes?

Allura: ...Sure. I’ll have six honey crullers—

Cashier: Honey what?

Allura: I. I’m. I’m sorry but what the _fuck_.

What then proceeded was the employee trying to sell six full sized French crullers to Allura, but they were not honey crullers, nor were they Timbits, which frankly defeats the purpose of them. Suffice it to say that Allura did _not_ receive her honey crullers that day, nor any other day since, because no Timmies exists past a certain threshold within the United States of Not Canada.

Back to the problem at hand: this very morning, Allura quite suddenly and unexpectedly craved not her usual regular McDongle’s coffee, but a double double. A Timmies double double.

Again, something Allura did not end up receiving. No number of sweetened McDrunkard’s iced coffees could heal her heart then.

Which leads to her finally, _finally_ , stuffing her angst and despair over the lack of Timmies—also Bluenotes graphic tees, Vector cereal, and _real_ Nutella—in order to initiate conversation with the man of unfortunate hairstyle and excessive grass stains traipsing around the green.

Of course, nothing goes as smoothly as an exchange of normal greetings. Just as Allura is inhaling to ask the man crouched at the base of a tree what it is he’s doing, one of the Frisbee-hurling frat boys shouts a warning. The young man spins, off balance and pitching forward onto his hands, the whirling chunk of death plastic coming straight for his face. In a moment of slow motion clarity—which is, quite frankly, not an uncommon moment for her to have—Allura lunges out with a hand and scoops the immortal symbol of college downtime out of the air.

The frat boys holler excitedly, as they do, but Allura is far more interested in the wide-eyed look of awe that the crouching man is giving her. It is, to be honest, a look she receives often and never tires of.

With a lazy toss over her shoulder that sends the frisbee careening over the heads of every frat boy on the green—initiating a wild goose chase that will, in the future, become famous as most things do on campus—Allura smiles down at the young man with smudges of dirt and tiny claw marks on his face, lopsided glasses being used as a headband instead of as vision aids.

“Hi,” she says smoothly.

“Hi,” he says far less smoothly, but accompanied by a beaming grin that hits Allura like a punch to the throat.

She decides immediately that she needs to befriend this man, and so begins by crouching down to his level and asking, “What are you doing?”

* * *

During his five years on this campus, Shiro has been witness to the birth of several unquestioned _things_ . Don’t be mistaken, at the first stages of development, such _things_ were, in fact, eyed with raised brows and perplexed squints. Suffice it to say that by the time the next group of freshmen arrived at the school, they took the Sven altar and questmaster in stride. They became unquestioned _things_ , and by that time, Shiro also stopped wondering the where’s and how’s and why’s of these _things_ , and without realizing it, he now feeds into the superstitions and the rituals and the habits that only students of their particular campus engage in.

So it isn’t peculiar that Shiro, in particular, becomes one of many roots for the growth of new eccentricities. He may not realize, but the fact that his particular office, shared with several other grad students, is wallpapered with pictures of squirrels? Unquestioned. Does he know that his office is referred to as the Tree Rat Shrine? Perhaps, but he also has done nothing to slow his office’s ascent into legend.

Thus it is without question that Shiro finds himself in his office, shared with other grad students, covered in images of _Sciurus carolinensis_ and _Tamiasciurus hudsonicus_. The owner of all the images is present as well, lying on the floor and humming happily as he flips through a scrapbook of all the squirrels he’s caught on campus, labelled by location, age and name. Another thing to simply take in stride. The one thing Shiro does wonder about, however, is the unusual extended presence of his younger brother in his domain.

As with yesterday and several days before as well, Keith shoves open the office door without knocking, causing Shiro to look up in alarm. Upon seeing it’s his brother, he relaxes, although he still wonders about the dead expression Keith insists on wearing as if the world is slowly coming to an end. He’s beginning to understand just _why_ Pidge’s blog posts have a tendency to become so dramatic when it comes to him, even seeing through his own skewed sibling vision.

Keith walks into the office, his foot immediately landing upon an unprepared human doormat.

“Fuck!” shouts Keith.

“Shit!” shouts the doormat.

“Stop stepping on Matt,” says Shiro calmly.

“No, it’s cool,” wheezes the doormat.

“He says it’s cool,” Keith says, then steps on him and into the room, ignoring the pained heaves from the ground.

Shiro suddenly feels the need to get up from his chair and track down Her Protective Astoundingness, just to—pray, or give an offering, or confess his sins, or _something_ . Judging by the last few days, he’ll need it. Maybe all of this— _this_ meaning Keith’s visits and Matt’s sudden willingness to be an actual doormat—is a punishment for not being as devoted of a disciple as he could be and failing to dedicate himself to Her Proven Fulfillingness. He makes a mental note to go at some point this week.

“I’m tired,” Keith says, flopping onto the sole comfortable piece of furniture in the room (ie. the lumpy, musty couch Shiro’s predecessors plucked from the side of the road). “Wake me up when this century is dead.”

“I thought you were going along the Black Parade route,” says the doormat.

“Shiro, can I step on him again?”

“You’ve already stepped on him today against my wishes, so obviously at this point nothing I say means anything to you.”

“I won’t,” Keith decides. “He’s too far.”

“Weak,” says Matt.

Keith slowly takes off his shoe and hurls it at Matt, where it nails him in the hip before landing square on his butt.

“Goal,” says Keith.

“Ow,” says Matt—

“The Tree Rat Shrine was _not_ meant for this sort of behavior,” says Shiro.

Keith makes an unintelligible noise—which surprises Shiro, because as much as it is unintelligible, it is not the noise of triumph that Shiro would expect from him after attacking Matt—and buries his head into a musty corner of the couch.

“Keith,” says Shiro to the prone form sprawled forlornly across the couch/prop from an apocalyptic movie.  “Don’t you have class to go to?”

“Not till three,” groans Keith into the armrest.

“Okay. Any assignments to finish?”

“Done ‘em.”

“People to hang out with?”

“You.”

Shiro pinches the bridge of his nose. “This thing you’re doing where you grunt into the couch every so often? That isn’t hanging out.”

“You just have high expectations,” grumbles Keith. “Lower them.”

“Where’s Pidge?”

“Working.”

“Where?”

“...Dunno.”

Shiro prays for patience. “Matt?”

“Dunno,” echoes Matt, apparently wasting no time for brotherly concern towards his sister when there are fluffy tails to survey.

“Shiro,” Keith says suddenly, sitting upright, “I want Hot Pockets.”

“Then go get some.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not…?”

“Can’t use my meal plan and I don’t get paid until Friday.”

“...Are you out of money again?”

Keith purses his lips and stares at Omarion, the Seventh Squirrel. “Well,” he says to Omarion, “I won’t say there is an abundance of money.”

“I still don’t get how you can hate pizza but love Hot Pockets,” Matt says. Shiro groans. Not this again. Matt continues swiping at the photos on his phone, unaware of the doom awaiting him in his near future. “I mean, they’re like the same thing.”

“I will _eat_ your _squirrels_ ,” Keith snaps, and Matt inhales so quickly he chokes. Keith looks away from Omarion’s inquiring eyes to meet Matt’s horrified gaze, dead expression and all. “I will _eat your squirrels."_

 _“Heretic,”_ Matt hisses. “Filthy heretic.”

Some people wonder, aside from their near-identical looks, how Matt and Pidge are related.

Shiro doesn’t get them.

“Hot Pockets are my only reason for living,” Keith says flatly. “Squirrels are nothing against that.”

“They’re the same thing!” Matt cries. “They taste the exact _same—”_

“You’ve tasted squirrels?”

“That’s not—!” begins Matt, his voice raising several horrified octaves.

“Please, stop,” Shiro begs. “I have to write new quizzes for the sixth unit because Narti somehow got her hands on the current set.”

Keith perks up. “What’s she asking for them?”

“Not telling, it’s a moot point, they’re off the shelf.”

“Fuck,” Keith says to Uriel, the Twenty-First Squirrel, whose benevolent gaze descends upon him from the ceiling, surpassed only by Her Sweet Mellowness.

“Tell me why you’re here again?” grumbles Shiro.

“Stew,” says Keith.

“Stew.”

“The verb. I’m in the act of stewing.”

“Por que?” asks Matt.

“I can’t remember. Gimme a sec.” They give him a sec. “I may need a minute.” They give him a minute. “Oh,” Keith says, remembering now. “Some asshole in the study room.”

“Whomst,” says Matt.

“Pidge’s post. He was the resident Librarian and S—”

“Student journalist,” Shiro sighs. “Lance, right?”

Keith rises from the couch like Poseidon from the depths of the ocean, except far less magnificent and involving a lot of flailing as the cushions buckle beneath him.

“You _know_ him?” hisses Keith as if it’s a personal betrayal that Shiro, teaching assistant to Thace’s first and second year physics courses, would dare to help Lance, resident Librarian and Student “Journalist”, student of aforementioned first year introductory class, and frequent visitor to his office with downtrodden expression and suffering quiz grades not even Her Silken Benevolence can fix.

Not that Shiro is about to divulge that information.

“Yes,” says Shiro.

Keith’s face crumples into an unimpressed frown. Matt giggles from the floor.

“He’s a nice guy,” Matt decides to point out.

The offended sound that rolls out of Keith, filling the office with five full seconds of supernatural huffing and groaning, is evidence enough of how Keith feels about Lance.

“He’s a dick,” declares Keith when the air has been thoroughly saturated with his disdain.

Shiro wisely chooses not to point out all of his sweet younger brother’s many, _many_ flaws, if only to protect Matt from receiving any more tempermental kicks. He’s saved from responding by the door flying open a second time, and an ethereal being stepping into the room, bringing light and glory with her.

Several expletives escape Shiro, but luckily the delighted greeting of Matt drowns them out.

“Allura!” he shouts, launching himself to his feet. The woman beams and practically scoops Matt up when she hugs him.

“Hello,” she says, and her voice alone reverberates within Shiro’s very soul.  

He chances a look at Keith, who appears as though he’s going through a crisis.

“Guys.” The brothers fix Matt with twin owlish stares. When he has their attention, Matt grins and sweeps a hand out to indicate them to the woman. “This is Shiro, and his little brother Keith.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” she says, smiling so sweetly that Shiro expects she could ask for their wallets and they would willingly give them to her. “I’m Allura, a grad student in the visual arts department.”

Keith says hello in the voice of a broken man. Shiro stares at her.

“Allura,” he repeats. Something—some memory—clinks into place within his brain. A sort of vague notion, a concept, a thought that grows and develops until: “Not—not _the_ _Princess_ Allura.”

Her smile widens and she tucks a lock of silvery white hair behind her ear. “The very same. I’m surprised you remember a silly epithet like that.”

A trickle of cold awe runs down Shiro’s spine. And fear. There’s a lot of that too.

Well. Mostly fear.

There’s only two things he knows about Princess Allura, and it’s that one: she does photo shoots for modelling and two: she is to be feared.

“Ah,” Shiro says, a little weakly. “The… the Princess. Allura. Princess Allura.”

“Yes,” she says. “It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Shiro and… Keith…”

The moment her eyes land on Keith, she stills. Fear trickles into him, more intensely. There are times when attention is great, like an awards ceremony when your name is called and you take your sweet time climbing down the steps to take your award and revel, and there are times when attention is bad, like when you’re the thick of the battlefield and your tuft of white hair like a surrender flag makes you a friendly target to all.

Then there are times when attention is absolutely the least thing you could ever want, like when The Princess Allura is looking at you. And keeps looking.

And keeps looking.

Shiro makes another mental note: _call the local undertaker and lay offerings at Her Courageous Prominence for Keith’s safe passage into the afterlife._

“Uh,” his clueless little brother says, “is there… anything you wanted? Or a reason you’re here?”

“Ah,” she says, still staring. “Yes. I just came to spend time with Matt, but I think I’ve found another reason to be here.”

Keith blinks. “Uh. Right.” A pause, where Shiro briefly prays to Her Glorified Restoration that Keith will take the hint and not prod the bear. Then Keith prods the goddamn bear and asks, “Which is?”

“A photo shoot,” she answers. She’s _still_ staring, but her gaze has shifted from ‘ _You Are Certainly a Fine Specimen of Human’_ to _‘I Am Willing to Dissect Every Inch of You If It Means a Successful Photo Shoot, Also How Long Are Your Legs._ ’ “Keith, do you know the measurements for your legs?”

Keith frowns. “Why would I—”

“Thirty-two inches,” Shiro interrupts, because leaving any of Princess Allura’s questions unanswered could mean swift and certain death. Allura’s blue eyes cut to him. He licks his lips and nods. “Yeah, uh. Thirty-two inches.”

“Hm,” she says. “Interesting.”

“How do you know the measurements of my legs?” Keith demands, turning to him. Shiro waves him down and signs _later._

“What about wingspan?”

“Six feet,” Shiro says tiredly.

“Perfect,” she says, almost purrs. “Keith, when are you available?”

“I—hold on a second here,” he says. He crosses his arms and scowls. “I never said I’d do it.”

A troubled expression crosses Allura’s face. “You won’t?”

“N—”

“YES, YOU WILL,” Shiro says. When Allura and Keith turn to stare at him, one gaze curious, the other shellshocked, he clears his throat and says a little more calmly, “Yes, you will.”

Shiro can tell the _exact_ moment when Bratty Little Brother mode comes out, because Keith crosses his arms and legs, and squints in a way he likes to think is threatening, but comes off as more ‘near-sighted guy without glasses’ than anything. “Oh, really? Why?”

 _Because as much as you act Like This, I have a vested interest in your well being as my family member._ “I’ll pay you,” Shiro says instead. “With. With the couch.”

Matt freezes and stares at Shiro. “Wait, what?”

Shiro maintains eye contact with Keith, who looks startled at the high offer made right off the bat and is clearly trying to maintain his cool and collected and near-sighted expression.

“Hey now,” says Matt, in the midst of their stare-off. His voice is shaking. “You could’ve offered him… I don’t know, pizza? Why the couch? _Why Frederico?”_

 _Why does everything have a name?_ Shiro wants to say, but doesn’t, because questioning is not a good thing to do on campus unless it’s asking someone what the difference between an alternate and null hypothesis is.  

Before Shiro can defend his choice, Keith whips his head around so fast everyone in the room can hear his neck crick. “I told you, I _hate pizza—”_

“WHY DIDN’T YOU OFFER THE MAN HOT POCKETS,” Matt shrieks over Keith, arms flailing and coming dangerously close to Allura’s face. Shiro blanches. “WHAT DID FREDERICO EVER DO TO YOU?”

Allura tents her fingers delicately in front of her, looking politely perplexed instead of enraged by the questionable cooperation of all present in the room, which proves that despite all the challenges he constantly faces, there exists a god, and it is Her Responsive Celebration. Her Forgiving Mightiness, regardless of his state of devotion to Her, is still looking out for him.

Matt is heaving, catching his breath, giving Shiro the opportunity to look Keith dead in the eye and say, “Take the offer if you’re not a coward.”

The words spark the usual Petty Little Brother mode, a secondary version of Bratty Little Brother. Keith’s squint turns into a wide-eyed stare, his mouth curving into an incredulous smile that allows a huff of a laugh to escape.

“ _Me?"_  he says. “A _coward?”_

Matt is gearing up again. Shiro tastes defeat at the tip of his tongue.

“I—” Keith whips around to face Allura, falling into one of Frederico’s many valleys. “Fuck. I am not a coward!”

Allura blinks slowly. “O...kay?”

“And!” He crosses his arms tightly, wobbling on his knees. “This is as close as I’m going to get to claiming Frederico for myself.”

Matt gasps in horror.

“Therefore,” Keith plows on, “I will consider it.”

Few things in this world have given Shiro such sweet relief as witnessing his brother cave. Allura doesn’t look entirely satisfied, but she pulls her hair over her shoulder instead of tossing it, and Shiro is able to relax.

“Well, that’s a relief,” she says. “I was worried I might have to call Zethrid and ask for some favors.”

Shiro’s reassurance withers and shoves itself away, deep into Frederico’s crevices. Once more: fear.

“Good thing Keith agreed, then,” Shiro says, over the noise of Matt sadly crooning to the couch. “Might’ve been… bad.”

“Bad,” Allura agrees, still looking bright and cheerful. “Thank you, Keith. I haven’t gotten my other model to agree to the shoot yet, but once I do, we’ll get this photoshoot started stat.”

“Cool.”

“Just tell me when you’re available, please. Here’s my number.”

Keith takes the card and squints at it. “I still haven’t decided to do it, by the way,” he reminds her, tucking it away, “but I’ll take it. Are there gonna be Hot Pockets at the shoot?”

“Oh, yes! The other model is quite a fan of Pizza Pockets, so it’s one of the items I plan to order for the shoot.”

“Hot Pockets.”

“Pizza Pockets.”

“Hot Pock—nevermind. Great,” he says. “By the way, who’s the other model?”

“Oh, his name is Lance,” begins Allura, and Shiro sees the precise moment that Keith’s brain hamster stops running in its wheel and shrieks indignantly at the _gall_.

Thankfully, Keith doesn’t immediately combust on the spot. Teeth audibly grinding, he says, “I. See. Hopefully. He’ll continue. To disagree.”

“Hopefully not,” counters Allura happily. “His jawline is phenomenal.”

Keith’s eye twitches. Shiro reminds himself not for the first time to return to Her Sparkling Celestialness’ side and thank her for such blessings as his brother’s competitive nature in this moment.

“We’ll see about that,” Keith says.

Except now Shiro has to worry that Keith is planning on knocking Lance’s jaw out of alignment.

“You win some and lose some,” Shiro tells the sobbing Matt, and pats him on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some.”

**Author's Note:**

> i wanna give a big shoutout to my dear birdfuck friend bwynnie who LEFT ME in this time of GREAT DISTRESS (i.e. posting) and i hate you for not helping me think of titles or summaries before you left you asshole. on a more serious note bless up to aestover for editing also big shoutout to the apartment squad ily'all
> 
> anyways hot pockets or pizza leave your thoughts below 
> 
> thanks for reading!


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